


Why did the chicken cross the road?

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chickens, Fairs, First Kiss, M/M, Ranches, South Dakota
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 03:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Castiel raises show chickens on a small farm, alone after the death of his benefactor and friend. A runaway chicken leads him across the road to Winchester Auto Repair where he must contend with the easy charm of Dean Winchester. A canon divergent story set in rural South Dakota.





	1. Chasing Glorinda

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual crew and also Twitter for indulging me while I natter on about chickens. While "Glorinda" and "Betsy" are chickens named by yours truly, I need to thank Diamond for "Henward," Janet for "Laura Wingalls" and "Feather Locklear," Superhoney for "Moonstone," and Ri for "Henwig." You haven't met all the chickens yet but you clucking bet they'll show up soon. <3
> 
> This story was inspired by this Facebook post about adorable chickens [Dolly and Nancy](https://www.facebook.com/happilyeveresther/posts/1645550665494274).
> 
> GUYS SOMEBODY MADE ART FOR THIS! Check it out and much love to [foxymoley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxymoley/pseuds/foxymoley). This is amazing: [Cas and Glorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724968). I just love the look on Cas's face and that fluffy feathery chicken! I just... (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“Glorinda!” A tinge of panic colored Castiel’s voice as he got down on his hands and knees and peered under the little raised henhouse. Underneath the henhouse roosted wind-blown weeds tangled among chipped dust-pale rocks, but no missing chicken. 

There was no blue-ribbon chicken strutting around the tidy fenced field that surrounded the henhouse. There was no haughty chicken snoozing in the shelter, or eating from the feed pans, or taking a dust bath in the finely crushed gravel at the edge of the drive. Glorinda was nowhere to be found.

Castiel swallowed against a rising feeling of despair. He’d vowed to Billina Wallace that he would care for her prized chickens until they passed on to whatever awaited chickenkind in the long after. Yet here he was with only three out of four show chickens accounted for amidst a motley flock of less exalted fowl. He scuttled awkwardly away from the henhouse wall, pebbles cutting into his palms. Castiel brushed his hands against his jeans roughly, then paused for a moment with his fingers gripping his knees and eyes staring sightlessly at the immaculate cream clapboard. “Alright. Think,” he said, straightening up and wincing a little as his back gave a small pop. He turned and did one more careful survey of the farmyard. To the northwest rose the brakes, a long series of low hills that caught the strong winds of the northern plains and occasionally tamed them. A breeze ran finger-light through his hair, driving the afternoon’s heat into his scalp and he narrowed his eyes against it.

What had once been cattle-grazed fields now hosted a tiny, new subdivision between Billina’s farm and the distant hills that everyone simply called “the brakes.” It wasn’t the first time Glorinda had escaped, and the last time he had caught her heading merrily towards the distant construction. “Have you gone for the brakes?” he mused, straining to see a black speck struggling through the shortgrass. The old grazeland lay quiet. If there was an absurdly large, decidedly rambunctious black chicken making its way through the shortgrass, he thought he would see it. Castiel shook his head and peered the other way, up towards the old highway. 

The Wallace farm nestled at the bottom of a gentle slope that hid the road from the sightlines of the house. To head into town, Castiel had to drive his old groaning truck up the gravel drive until he crested the top of the hill. There, the driveway opened into the old highway which paralleled the newer interstate. 

There was very little in the way of safe haven for Glorinda if she had gone that way. Neighbors were spaced widely, a remnant of the ranching legacy of the township. If Glorinda had gone cross country to one of his neighbors on his side of the highway, she’d be coyote food by nightfall. If she’d headed up the drive, however, there were cars to contend with - cars that likely wouldn’t stop for one little chicken. But there was one place at which she might find shelter. 

Fifty paces up the road from the Wallace driveway swung a hail-pocked metal sign with Winchester Automotive Repair and Restoration carefully painted onto it in bright green letters. The sign marked the end of a driveway stretching away from Castiel’s home. 

The Winchester property was the homestead of a former rancher who’d sold it cheap (according to Billina) when the interstate had cut across his land. Rather than farm under the symphony of semi-trucks, the property had been snapped up by a couple looking to settle into idle retirement. (“Real busybodies,” Billina had taken great pleasure in announcing whenever their name resurfaced.) When they’d died, the home had been bought by Winchester and refitted into a machinery and car repair business. Castiel had never seen Winchester in person. Castiel himself rarely left the farm except for groceries or farm shows, but he picked up on plenty of gossip all the same. Winchester, shopkeepers and gas station attendants reported with dismay, spent too much time being a recluse on his property or off “living it up” in the nearby city. 

Castiel discounted the “recluse” label. He suspected that the man had ample company from his clients. It wasn’t unusual to see flatbeds hauling broken tractors or ailing cars driving down the wide gravel road that led to the Winchester barn. 

Winchester also apparently kept chickens, and geese, and three goats (with ten legs between them). Castiel even knew Winchester’s favorite beer, courtesy of talkative neighbors who insisted he learn these details as he bought toilet paper and canned soup.

Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted towards the crest of the hill. He thought he remembered hearing that Winchester headed into the city some afternoons. The rural lifestyle could be permissive; he wondered if he could check out his neighbor’s property for any sign of Glorinda and be out again with none the wiser. “Next week,” Castiel vowed as he started for the gate that opened onto the driveway, “I’ll build this fence up higher.” 

He walked up the quiet driveway, past the ragged treeline Billina’s father had planted decades ago, and up to the top of the hill. Along the way he found a single black feather blown into the little dry ditch. Castiel bent down and picked it up, rubbing the silky down between his fingers. “Glorinda,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked towards the highway. His pace quickened. 

When he reached the sign at the end of Winchester’s drive he paused and looked carefully left, then right. The highway lay quiet in both directions and if Winchester was in residence at the end of the driveway, there was certainly no sign of it. Castiel dug his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers still clenched around the little feather, and made his way down the dusty drive towards the outbuildings. 

The Winchester property contained a small yellow farmhouse with a long porch facing the northern brakes. Just beyond the house was a large metal-paneled barn. The doors at one end were thrown wide, exposing the dull yellow nose of a tractor. To the side of the barn, flanking a groaning windmill, were three sheds of various sizes and a long, red chicken coop. Castiel headed for the chicken shed, nearly praying in his fervent wish to find Glorinda safely within its walls. The chicken shed featured cut-out openings for chickens to pop in and out, with wide doors that could be latched tight at night. A large screened door on a spring-set hinge appeared to be unlatched, so Castiel pulled it open and stepped inside, letting it groan shut behind him. 

The chicken shed was dark, except for the bright patches of suspended dust glistening golden in the sun. The air smelled fusty with feather and feed and straw and Castiel’s nose itched involuntarily. He scrunched his nose against the urge to sneeze and waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. “Glorinda?” he called softly, frowning at the stew of chickens pecking along the floor boards or roosting along the walls. 

The sound of a throat clearing rattled through the gloom. “Who the hell are you?”

* * *

When the old shed door creaked open, Dean turned towards it with a grin. Paulo had threatened to stop by with a six pack of beer as soon as he finished work, ostensibly to hang out, but more likely he planned to offer some free advice about Dean’s latest rescue. 

In the little crate beside him, the injured chicken stirred irritably at the din raised by the door. Her feathers scraped against the bars in prickly _ping ping pings_ until the strange langshan chicken nestled just outside of her pen clucked soothingly. Dean was about to stroke an appreciative finger down the coal-feathered stray when he froze. It wasn’t Benny who walked through the door into the shaded shed. Instead, he saw a tall, dark-haired man frowning at his chickens, his hair wind-mussed and jeans smeared with gray gravel dust. “Who the hell are you?” Dean barked before he could stop himself. Instantly he regretted his sharp words. If this was a new client wandering his property searching for the proprieter, he was doing a fine job of welcoming him. But old habits died hard, and Dean wasn’t fond of surprises. He took a deep breath to calm himself and adopted a pleasantly inquisitive smile. 

The stranger whirled towards him, arm shaking out suddenly and fists flexing, as though he adjusted his grip around an imaginary blade. For a moment he looked wild and fierce, features gilded into sharp angles by the late sunshine streaming through the windows. And then the moment passed and a gentle, befuddled look descended. The man’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth turned down. “I’m sorry,” he said, with his eyes narrowed into a aggravated squint. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Well,” Dean said, rising carefully to his feet and striding towards his visitor. “You found me now.” He extended his hand as he approached. “Dean Winchester,” he said, trying and failing to not stare too long at the stranger’s beautiful eyes as they fixed on him. “How can I help you today?”

If anything, the man grew more bashful and befuddled. He seized Dean’s hand and held it just a little too long, which gave Dean time to register the tingle of interest starting to wander its way up Dean’s skin from where their palms met. “Ah,” the stranger said in a low, gravely voice. “Er. I’m looking for a chicken.” He dropped Dean’s hand and shoved his fists into his pockets. 

Dean folded his arms. “A chicken?” Dean rocked back on his heels and cocked his head at the man. “You lose one?”

“Yes,” the man said with a gasp before launching into a flurry of words. “She’s black, rather large. A langshan breed, but I don’t know if you’re aware of chicken breeds. They’re— They’re black and rather large and— A red comb?” He waggled his fingers at the top of his head illustratively. “She may have wandered up this way? From the farm over—”

Dean stood to the side, exposing the chicken nestled on the ground behind him. “That her?” he asked.

In response, Castiel simply gasped, “Glorinda!” and rushed forward. He swooped to the chicken’s side and carefully eased his arms around her, drawing her close to his chest as he stood. The chicken settled comfortably in his arms, clearly familiar with the handling. She wobbled her beak as though dismissing Dean’s chicken shed and dug into her soft breast feathers, grooming herself contentedly. 

“Glorinda?” Dean asked, unable to stop a grin from appearing. 

The man, stray chicken now in hand, turned towards Dean once more. His expression, so openly panicky a moment ago, had smoothed to something cool and detached. Emotionless. It was a stark contrast to the openly animated looks he’d delivered when he first set foot in the coop. It set Dean on edge in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. 

“Thank you,” the man said quietly. “I’ll just…go now.” He moved to step forward and around Dean, but Dean held out his palm. 

“Whoa. Hey. Glad you came to claim her. What’s your name?” He looked around the coop as though surveying the countryside around them. “Where do you live that your poultry’s ended up in my barn?”

“Ah,” the man said. “My name is— That is— I’m…Steve,” he said finally. “My name is Steve.”

Dean grinned and then hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “Well, nice to meet you Steve,” he said. “We neighbors?”

“Yes,” Steve said with apparent reticence. “I live just across the road from you.”

Dean frowned at the man. “Ain’t that the Wallace property? I thought I heard that it hadn’t sold yet after she passed.”

“It didn’t.” Steve’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around Glorinda and a defiant glint seemed to light his eye. “I live there now.”

Dean could recognize a firmly buried backstory when he saw one and he let his grin fall into an amiable but bland smile. “Well,” he said, stepping back to allow him a clear exit, “good to finally meet you, Steve. You all set?” When the other man nodded, Dean said, “Have a good day now.”

Steve nodded curtly and practically ran from the chicken coop, the chicken nestled happily in his arms. Dean followed him outside and watched him make his way down his short driveway. Steve had his chin tipped toward the chicken as though he were speaking to it. Maybe he was. 

Dean shook his head, intrigued at his new, reclusive neighbor. As he watched, Steve disappeared down the driveway just down the road from him. Apparently he had been telling the truth about where he lived. Or he was an exceptionally smooth liar. “The Wallace farm,” Dean murmured curiously. He made a mental note to actually spend some time in town and encourage a little idle gossip on his apparently “new” neighbor. Just how long had he been living across the highway? He would have remembered meeting someone like that before. A recollection of Steve’s piercing blue eyes and full mouth arrived unbidden and Dean shook his head. He would have definitely remembered meeting him before. 

Steve disappeared over the hill, so Dean finally headed back into the shed. He made his way to the back of the long room and knelt quietly by the crate holding the injured chicken. He slid open the bolt and eased the door wide. Betsy flinched as he brought his hand near and Dean stilled his hand. “Easy,” he murmured in a low voice. 

The little white chicken shivered as he ran gentle hands over her wings and under her body so he could carefully shift her to the side. As he lifted her, he peered at her legs. When he’d found her she had so much grime on her legs that her feet had been partially fused together. While her wings were intact, she was missing several feathers, and many others were broken. There was a mite infestation he had just started to treat.

Dean flinched internally every time she shivered under his touch. “Betsy,” he crooned. “How you feeling now? You liked that visitor, didn’t you?” he asked, thinking of the wandering langshan. 

It had been a surprise to find a new chicken nestled in his chicken shed, and even more shocking to find Betsy - frightened, injured Betsy - pressed against the bars of her crate so that as much of her as possible came into contact with the langshan. She’d been terrified of Dean, and downright skittish of the other avian occupants of the shed. That she had uncoiled from her shivering ball of misery to interact with the langshan seemed like some kind of minor miracle. He smiled at her, checking the progress of her healing. When he was satisified that he had done all he could for the evening, Dean fastened Betsy’s crate again. He reached towards the nearest chicken, a Polish bantam with a ridiculous crown of feathers capping her tiny head. “C’mere,” he crooned, urging the other chicken towards Betsy’s crate. “Betsy, this is Feather Locklear. Feather, this is Betsy. Can you keep her company?” He ran a finger through the ruff of feathers at the base of Feather’s neck and she wobbled her head contentedly and settled closer to the cage. Betsy rustled and snapped her wings against the metal before limping to the end of the cage farthest from Feather. Dean drooped. “Worth a try,” he muttered before pushing himself off the floor. “Steve,” he said, glancing in exasperation at the ceiling. “Wish you woulda left that chicken here for one more day.” He smoothed Feather one more time, then headed outside to wait for Paulo’s arrival. 

* * *

The next day Castiel stood outside of Dean Winchester’s chicken coop door, his hands balled into fists as he took deep breaths and steeled himself for interaction. Billina would have told him that these nerves were a side effect of spending too much time on his own, wrapped up in the farm and the chickens when he should be out meeting people.

People.

Castiel shook his head. He didn’t need to meet people. He needed to build his chicken fence higher. High enough that Glorinda the escape artist couldn’t scale the sides. He needed to get ready for the show coming up in just a couple of days. He needed to get past this conversation - this “small talk” with Dean and head back to his quiet refuge. 

Castiel could hear Dean’s low murmur from inside the coop. His neighbor was talking to another person, or possibly even the chickens within. He drew himself tall and rapped sharply on the door. The screen door rattled loosely against the springs. Silence followed, then, “Yeah? Come on in.”

Castiel let himself in.

He found Dean settled on the floor of the coop grinning - not at him, but at two chickens in front of him. Glorinda pecked enthusiastically at a small bowl of feed in front of her. The little, bedraggled chicken in the crate was doing the same. “Dude,” Dean said, his tone a little hushed. “Look at them eat!”

Castiel peered at the other chicken, who was indeed eating with nearly as much gusto as Glorinda. Castiel peered at the food, but it looked like ordinary chicken feed and hardly enough to warrant attention. He looked back at Dean and some amount of his puzzlement must have come through because Dean said, “I found this little gal a few days ago and it’s been like pulling teeth trying to get her to eat a damn thing. But the moment your chicken shows up and…” He waved his hand in a flourish towards Glorinda.

“She does have a robust appetite,” Castiel said, wondering what cues he should look for to rescue his chicken and retreat back to their home. 

Dean slapped his palms to his knees and then stood up in a rustle of clothing scraping against the hay-flecked wood. He looked directly at Castiel now and although a smile lit his lips, Castiel thought that his eyes looked wary. “Steve,” he said slowly. “I know you’re here for your chicken, but honestly this is the best I’ve seen Betsy look since I rescued her. Would you mind just…leaving her here for a little longer? Maybe an hour? Just so she can eat.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped open. He looked between Dean and the two birds, wrapping his head around setting a new plan for his afternoon. “I don’t—” He frowned.

The birds did seem content and Glorinda, despite being a masterful escape artist from her own home, didn’t seem inclined to move from this one. She looked up at him as though aware of the choice he was considering and, although he knew he was projecting his feelings onto her… Glorinda looked at him imploringly. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll return in one hour.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean you had to leave. Not that you’ve got a long way to go or anything.” Dean laughed at some imperceptible joke. “But you’re welcome to come in for a beer. We’re neighbors, right? We should get to know each other. Finally.”

Castiel felt a weight within his chest plummet, and resented it. He squared his shoulders. This would be fine. _It’s just normal human interaction_ , he berated himself. Talk about the weather. Inquire about sports and let Dean drown the conversation with meaningless trivia. He could do this. “Of course. We can speak for an hour. But then,” he said, feeling proud of himself for remembering to mark the boundaries of the time and attention he was willing to give, “I really should get back.”

“Awesome.” Castiel rocked back as Dean slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on up.”

Castiel trailed Dean dutifully out of the chicken coop and up to the little yellow house. “Wait here,” Dean said, indicating the adirondack chairs angled towards each other on the porch. Castiel settled onto one of the chairs, running his palms along the weather-worn wood and gripping the ends of the armrests, letting his tension settle into his fingertips. Every piece of him longed to be away from here, even though objectively Dean seemed very friendly. But Castiel had decided long ago that most friendliness was a sham, a social construct made to induce feelings of well being that otherwise didn’t exist. 

Dean bustled out before Castiel could work up the gumption to get up and leave unannounced. He handed Castiel an open beer. Then he settled in the adjacent chair with a satisfied sigh, slumping down somewhat so his long legs could stretch out to the railing. “Thanks for this,” he said after a long swallow. 

“Um. Thank you.” Castiel raised his beer tentatively and took a careful sip. The beer was good, with a dark, deep flavor that overwhelmed his taste buds. He swallowed the drink and then swallowed against the afterburn. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Yeah, well. Least I could do. I was starting to think I’d be watching that chicken slowly starve herself, so it’s a big relief to see her eat.” 

“You said you…rescued her?”

Dean flicked a glance at him and a dusky flush seemed to color his ears. He rolled his eyes at Castiel and took another sip of his beer. “I know most people around here would just put her out of her misery. My friend Paulo - he’s a vet from Rapid - thinks she fell off a processing truck anyway.” Castiel furrowed his brow at this and Dean continued, “We think she was on her way to get turned into chicken tenders. And don’t get me wrong.” Dean spread out one hand dramatically, as though to forestall Castiel from jumping up in condemnation and shouting wild accusations. “I am one hundred percent fine with eating meat. Hell, I got a freezer full right now. But there was just something I saw. In her eyes.” He shook his head, clearly embarassed, and Castiel considered him curiously. 

“You felt empathy for the chicken,” he guessed and Dean laughed.

“Well. Yeah. She was just this pathetic little thing on the side of the road. Figured if I can bring her back, then what’s the harm, right?”

Castiel had seen the darkest side of the world that was possible to see. It was a hard world, a cold world. That it also made room for these small, inconsequential acts of kindness never failed to astonish him and as he looked at Dean mulishly drinking his beer with red ears, Castiel felt the tension within him begin to release. His fingers relaxed against the chair arms and he took a longer drink. “That was a very good thing to do,” he said solemnly and Dean laughed again, a little high, a little embarassed.

“I’ve never rescued a chicken,” Castiel offered. “I’ve only had Billina’s in my care. But they do seem to be hardy. I’m sure that your chicken…”

“Betsy.”

“I’m sure that Betsy will recover admirably.”

“You know,” Dean said, raising his beer. “I think she’s gonna be okay.” He paused for a moment, his beer in the air and then he grinned and moved his bottle over to clink against Castiel’s. He raised his brows as though in lighthearted challenge, and they drank in silence for a while.

Castiel, who had spent full days without saying a word even to the chickens, broke first. There were social contracts to uphold, and he was a guest enjoying another man’s drink. “This is a very nice view you have here.” He indicated the billowing cumulonimbus clouds in the distance. “It could rain later.”

“It might. Been a while.”

“It has.”

Castiel drank his beer slowly, savoring it and mimicking Dean who wetted his lips with his tongue before each swallow. He tried to look out over the scenery, at the quiet highway and the brakes beyond. But his eyes kept drifting to Dean’s lips, wet with the flick of a tongue, wrapped around the bottle, swallow and repeat. 

Dean sucked in a long breath. “So how long have we been neighbors? I’ve been out here five years now, but I lived in Rapid City for a few years before that. And before that I was - well.” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Been here and there.”

Castiel looked towards the tops of the Wallace’s windbreak trees visible beyond the highway. “I’ve lived there for just over a year.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you come from?”

The true answer to that was a chasm that Castiel had no desire to fall down today so he simply said, “Lots of places.”

“Ah. I’ve heard Lots of Places is nice this time of year.” Dean winked and then asked, “How’s your beer?”

“It’s good,” Castiel said truthfully, outrageously glad at the apparent shift in topic. “I’ve never had Kingdom before. Billina used to say it tasted like— It’s good,” he amended.

“Yeah. It’s not everyone’s taste, but it’s hands down my favorite.”

“I know,” Castiel said before he could stop himself. He felt himself flush and cursed himself for it.

Dean laughed at that. “Let me guess. The Stop ’n’ Drive?”

Castiel nodded a little sheepishly. “I’m sorry. The proprieter there seems to make it his business to collect and disseminate information about his customers. I can only imagine what he says about me.”

“Hmmm. Not much.” Dean drew his palm across his chin and shook his head. “Sorry. But, uh, I did ask about you.”

“About me?” Pleasure and fear warred for attention, only somewhat allayed by Dean’s explanation.

“I did ask about you. New neighbor and all. Or, as it turns out, neighbor who’s been here for a while. But it turns out you’re quiet. Keep to yourself. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

Although his tone was light, Castiel winced at the question and answered far more solemnly than he likely should, “No, I’m not a killer.”

“Mmm,” Dean replied nonsensically. Then he leaned forward and set his bottle on the porch boards. “You hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Uh, no I couldn’t possibly…”

“I’m gonna get us some pie,” Dean said, steamrolling over Castiel’s feeble objections. “I’ll be right back.” He pushed himself up from the chair and was gone before Castiel could do more than sputter. 

He came back with two slices of pie, warm cinnamony apples spilling from the crust onto the plates. The pie smelled astonishingly lovely and Castiel’s mouth immediately began to salivate. “That smells—”

“Heated ‘em up in the microwave even though it’s starting to warm up. Hope you don’t mind.” Dean handed a plate to Castiel, who took it and held it on his lap. Dean settled next to him once more. “Well…” And then a look of doubt fell over him and he frowned at Castiel’s still hands and surprised expression. “You don’t like pie,” he said. “Sorry, man, I’ll take—”

“No,” Castiel said, embarassed but ultimately unrepentant to hunch protectively over his untouched plate. “I’ve never had pie before but it— I’d like to try it.” 

“Never had—” Dean’s lips worked noiselessly, his eyes wide.

Castiel scooped up a forkful and took a tentative nibble. 

The flavor that hit him was complex, almost overwhelming. Castiel didn’t devote much attention to food. He kept on hand the basic nutritional requirements but anything beyond a simple sandwich or soup somehow felt unnecessarily decadent. Billina had bequeathed to him her entire estate which, if he lived very frugally, would sustain him for ten years, give or take. He’d no expectation of decadence. Nor did he have any need for it, or so he thought. 

Castiel didn’t bake, and this pie was why. He closed his eyes and groaned as he took a second, larger bite. It was good. It was really far too good.

He opened his eyes. Dean watched him eagerly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What do you think?” He asked as if he knew the answer but was recording it for posterity. 

“It’s amazing,” Castiel said. Desire and shame warred within his chest. “Thank you. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“I’d say it was an old family recipe but I found it online.”

“Oh?” Castiel dug out another forkful, utterly clueless what the correct response to that statement should be.

Dean didn’t seem to mind it, though. They ate their pie in companionable silence and when Castiel finished his slice, he assented to another. Dean’s joyful smile as he watched Castiel eat felt too heartening to refuse him. He should have eaten a single slice, gathered up Glorinda, and left. Instead, he thought he could die happy in this chair with pie balanced on his lap and Dean’s careful grin warming him.

“You should come on by again,” Dean said after a while. “Now that we’ve met. And we live so close. Bring your chicken.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I’m sure you don’t need the company.” Castiel hedged. 

“Dude, I love visitors. The only reason I moved out here was for the cheap shop space.” Dean thumbed back towards the barn. “Try to find a garage in Rapid that can store 4 cars and three tractors and a shit ton of spare parts.”

“That sounds like a lot?” Castiel asked, somewhat mystified.

“I do alright,” Dean said proudly. He set his plate down onto the porch and ran a hand over his hair before hooking his arm over the chair back. The pose pulled at his shirt, tugging a corner away from his waist. Castiel’s gaze caught onto the bare skin like a hem in a thorn bush. He licked his lips. 

Dean continued, seemingly oblivious to Castiel’s stare. “How about you? What do you do? I’ll tell ya, with the small amount of stuff people in town know about you, I’m surprised you don’t have folks breaking down your door with baskets of muffins.”

Castiel flushed. “Oh well I— I did meet people at Billina’s funeral. And before that I used to go to The Pickle Jar sometimes and get lunch.” He shrugged. “Now I don’t see the need. And besides, I do get out.” He winced at his tone, defensive and a little surly. “Since she died I’ve been taking her chickens to shows. Glorinda has taken several ribbons and Laura Wingalls - she’s a Sebright - has been awarded first at 4 competitions so far.”

“Ah,” Dean said, nodding slowly. “I’d wondered. So you breed show chickens?”

Castiel nodded. “Well, breeding…no. I raise them now. For her.”

“Hmm.” Dean settled back in his chair and propped one boot clad foot across his knee. “So you raise chickens. And you—?”

“Read with my free time, mostly.” Castiel met Dean’s eye carefully, feeling like he was being challenged. “I had some…difficult times in the past. When Billina found me we became… We became friends,” he said softly. “She had no family so when she realized she was dying she left it to me. I had nothing. So I take care of them. I take care of the farm.”

Dean looked at him quietly. The pity or surprise Castiel had been expecting never appeared. He finally nodded slowly. “That sounds real nice.”

“It is.”

And when a slow, gentle smile illuminated Dean’s face something solid and calm settled in Castiel’s chest. He let his own lips drift upward in return, feeling warm and full and happy.


	2. A Fair to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets up with Castiel at the fair.

The fair was hot and crowded and Castiel hated it.

The Upward States fair was held just north of Rapid City, a stone’s throw away from the farm. In theory, it should feel much easier than many of the more distant events they traveled to - more relaxed. After all, it was Castiel’s home turf. The chickens barely had to travel for this one and Castiel didn’t have to worry about dealing with long drives and stressed chickens, or overnight accomodations with mold crawling up the walls.

Castiel tried to work up the werewithal for a smile as a family passed by, peering curiously at the row of rosecomb bantams just behind him. He exhaled as they sauntered past, his smile leaching away as he surveyed the long pavilion full of stacked chicken cages.

On the other side of the avian pavilion, Glorinda snoozed contentedly, utterly indifferent to the pressing crowds. Laura Wingalls was taking the fair by storm, strutting proudly behind another blue ribbon almost as large as herself. With the judging over, Castiel had delivered fresh feed and water for all his chickens. For the most part, they’d done Billina proud.

However Henward, the rosecomb bantam, reflected Castiel’s opinion of the proceeding. His wings were peeled away from his body, beak slightly agape as he took in the full effect of the Saturday crowds at the fair. Castiel had just changed his water so it was cool and fresh, and put down clean, new hay. Henward had leaned quivering into Castiel’s touch like he had entirely forgotten the pen training they’d worked on the week before. Not for the first time, Castiel found himself longing for the ability to sooth the bird with a touch.

Billina had bought Henward from a friend not long before her quick decline and had instructed Castiel in his care and training. “All he needs is a little help,” she’d told Castiel, patting him on the cheek. “He just needs a little nudge to get comfortable.” Castiel had secured Henward and the other two in pens the prior week and proceeded to crash around the floor and generally be as distracting as possible. But Henward still hadn’t become inured to the press of people. Perhaps he never would. Castiel pursed his lips and considered the problem, arms wrapped tightly around himself as fairgoers buffeted past.

Castiel stood with his back against a rough-hewn wooden post lost in thought when a cool breeze in the form of Dean Winchester arrived.

“Steve?” Dean’s voice cut through his surroundings, instantly recognizable above the din.

People shouldn’t be like that, Castiel thought as he watched Dean wind his way through the narrow rows towards Castiel’s perch. They shouldn’t be able to just blow into his day like weather patterns unto themselves.

“Hey!” Dean said in a more normal register as soon as he was properly in earshot. He had a sun-bright grin across his face, one hand half raised in greeting. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Castiel looked over each shoulder out of an abundance of caution, but Dean appeared to be beaming directly at him. Castiel glanced at Henward, trying to connect the threads of purpose. “Dean,” he said finally. “What are you doing here?”

Dean grinned, though his gaze flicked away from Castiel as he said, “Friend of mine’s working the rodeo today. And I thought…Steve said he’d be here. And here you are. Thought I’d see how your, uh, chickens were doing.”

“Oh.” Castiel cast around for an acceptable response, even as he felt a warm flush envelop him. “Is your friend in the rodeo?”

“Nah, just working the soundboards. She said she’d hook me up with some tickets.” Dean glanced along Castiel in quick assessment. “You look like a man in sore need of some fun. Wanna come?”

Castiel could do nothing but stare at Dean in response.

Dean leaned forward and tilted his head. He said, out of the corner of his mouth as though they were conspiring together, “I hear there’s deep fried bacon on a stick.” He pulled away, pinning Castiel with such an eager, open expression that Castiel laughed.

“I’ve heard there’s deep fried everything on a stick.” He glanced at Henward with a furrowed brow. There was nothing he could do for now, he supposed. A short walk through the fair would take little time and perhaps distract him from fretting over the state of his chickens. “Alright, I can spare a few hours, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean said, knocking his knuckles against Castiel’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

* * *

Dean strolled through the fair, his hands in his pockets and one elbow brushing occasionally against Steve’s arm as they wove their way through the crowds. Steve was explaining carefully in his throaty voice Billina’s methodical process for preparing chickens for the fair. He seemed anxious, tightly wound, and Dean found himself searching for ways to distract him. He shepharded Steve to the peppermint striped cart selling coils of candied bacon and ordered two of them while Steve squinted at him and slipped a hand towards his back pocket.

Dean threw up a hand. “My treat, man. This,” he said, handing one to Steve, “Is one of the greatest food inventions known to mankind. You’re gonna love it.”

They walked a few paces away and Dean watched as Steve considered his bacon coil. He approached it like he approached every edible item Dean gave him: as though he’d never before encountered it. Steve squinted at the bacon like it was a puzzle to be solved and when he finally took a bite, it was careful and precise. His eyes flew open at the crunch of the sugared bacon.

“Oh,” he said slowly, then took another bite. “Oh this is…”

“Right?” Dean said and took a bite of his own, then slid a hand along Steve’s shoulder to encourage their progress through the fair. The fair’s rows of stalls teemed with patrons, drawn to rows of food carts in the thick afternoon sunshine. They wove their way towards the rodeo stands and stared into the brightly colored booths along the way. Dean couldn’t stop himself from taking the opportunity to watch Steve as they walked.

Steve intrigued him. Since their initial meeting, he had been over to Dean’s farm every day chasing his damn escapee chicken. With each meeting, he’d seemed to be wound a little less tightly, as though something within him unspooled a little more with each visit. Dean would peg him as an introvert with his apparently hermitage existance at the Wallace farm, except that Steve could weild the most piercing, penetrating…long stare. When they were together, Dean felt like Steve could see within him. Like his body was just a shell, a rough enclosure, and Steve could lift open the hood and peer within him. It was both discomfiting and oddly affirming. Like he was a worthy object of study.

Steve had been new to pie. New to barbecue and beer and seemingly any kind of fun. He would sit with Dean on his porch while his chicken navigated the henhouse with her new best friend and deliver one word answers about his past. And yet he’d go on and on about the chickens, about Billina. Dean got a sense that certain topics were safe for Steve, but that vast areas of his life were taboo.

Dean knew the feeling.

They walked along the trampled grass pathways that led between the fair tents and Dean let himself drift as they talked. He knew it was purely indulgent to let their shoulders brush, to press against Steve to let a sprawling family pass, to wrap his fingers around the other man’s muscled forearm to catch his attention. He’d only known Steve for a couple of days. But something about him, the way he looked at Dean like he was the only person in the world when they talked, set Dean’s heart racing in the best possible way.

“So you’re a real mystery, you know that?” Dean said lightly.

Beside him, Steve tensed. “I… No, I didn’t realize.”

Dean nudged him with his shoulder, feeling Steve lean momentarily into him. He was warm and solid, and Dean had to pull away before he’d be tempted to stay in his space. “Not in a bad way. Just in an…interesting way.” He mulled over his next words for a moment. But life was too short for too much prevarication. “I’m interested in _you_. And getting to know you. So. You take care of chickens and read. What do you like to read?”

Steve hummed consideringly. “Lately whatever I can get on chicken rearing. I’ve been reading a book now on acupuncture in animals. I’m wondering if it might help Henward.”

“Henward?”

“One of my chickens. He’s scared of crowds. These shows… He hadn’t been taking them well. I’ve tried herbal remedies in the water, changing his diet, isolation, socialization. Henward seems fine until you put him in a small cage in front of a hundred eyes.”

“And then he’s a whole new chicken.”

“Essentially, yes.” Steve had eaten his way through his bacon and now he scraped his teeth against the stick to catch the remnants. “So I’m considering acupuncture now.”

Dean whistled. “That’s a lot.”

“For a chicken?” Steve said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I’ve heard that before.”

“You sound like you’ve heard that a lot.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Many times. You see, most breeders with a chicken that won’t show well let it go. Sell it or slaughter it. He’s not working out well so he must be destroyed…” He paused for a moment, face twisting with anger in a moment so quickly gone that Dean would have missed it if he weren’t watching. “Billina bought Henward because he wouldn’t show well for his prior owner. Billina thought differently but never got a chance…” He groaned in frustration. “I know I can do it. I just need to find the key to easing his anxiety.” He glanced at Dean. “You’re laughing. You think this is foolish.”

“What? No. Listen, I’m the last guy who’ll judge you for trying everything you can. I rescued a traumatized feed chicken who might never lay eggs again. I get it.”

Steve considered him with a tilt of his chin, a careful expression on his face as though seriously appraising Dean. “That’s true,” he said finally. “I think you do.” They approached the rodeo, wide wooden stands taking up the far edge of the fairgrounds. “I’ve never been to a rodeo before.” He seemed grateful for the subject change and Dean went with it.

“Don’t make it to many, myself. But I think it’ll be pretty fun.”

Steve insisted on buying Dean a beer, pronouncing that Dean had “procured the tickets, so the least he could do is purchase drinks.” He’d said it with that wide open smile that seemed to often surprise even him and Dean had flushed at the attention. This wasn’t a date, not at all. But the slow stroll through the fair, the show, the drinks… It all felt like a date. All they were missing now was a stuffed animal from one of the prize tents and Dean could check “cliché fair date” off of his bucket list.

They watched the rodeo together and if Dean fantasized from time to time about their knees touching, thighs pressing together as they cheered, that was his own business.

Dean walked Steve back to the avian house afterward while Steve talked animatedly about the horse dancers. He’d been captivated by them, eyes wide as a child, and Dean had found himself inviting Steve to visit a friend who trained horses on the high plains near Wind Cave. It was an enticing picture, imagining Steve astride a galloping horse as they crossed the wild mountains together. Untethered. Ethereal.

“Dean? Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “Sorry. What?”

They stood outside the chicken pavilion. Steve was looking at him, half amused and half concerned. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“‘Course I did.” Dean peered over Steve’s shoulder and into the doorway. “Crowd’s going down. You sticking around after you see to your chickens?”

Steve joined him in looking towards the pavilion. “I suppose I’ll head back home after this. I’ll be back early tomorrow to tend to them and then have the day to spend here before the fair breaks. How about you? What are your plans?” He returned his piercing gaze to Dean who found himself momentarily speechless.

Plans. Plans? _Oh! Plans._ “Meeting my friend for dinner tonight. She’ll finish up at the rodeo in about an hour. Figured I’d head back home after that.”

“That sounds like a very pleasant evening,” Steve said cordially. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well. I suppose this is good night.”

“Oh! Yeah. Good night.”

Dean waved, internally cringing at his absolute lack of calm, and was turning to go when Steve said emphatically, “Thank you, Dean.” Dean turned back to Steve who looked at him solemnly. As though thanking him for something far more serious, Steve said, “I had a wonderful day. Thank you for that.”

“Thursday,” Dean said, in reply.

“What?”

“I mean, me too. I had a lot of fun today. And you should come out with me. And my friends. Next Thursday,” Dean repeated. “Trivia night. It’ll be fun.” And then he swallowed carefully and said, “I’d like you to come.”

“Okay,” Castiel nodded gravely. “I’ll be there.” And with a quiet smile and a half wave, he disappeared into the chicken pavilion once more.

* * *

“I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils”

Castiel broke off of his recitation and leveled a mock stern look at Dean. “You shouldn’t laugh,” he admonished. “I was making a point.”

“Steve, nobody and I mean nobody goes around quoting Wordsworth when they’re asked if they had fun at trivia night.”

“What’s wrong with quoting a poet? I was given to understand that was common parlance from the movies I’ve watched. The Shakespeare quotes alone…”

“Dude, what movies have you watched where that’s normal? No, scratch that. What movies have you even watched at all?”

“I’ve seen movies,” Castiel said flatly. “Seven movies.” He wasn’t able to hold a straight face for long. Dean laughed and it was infectious. Castiel smiled. This evening a smile was practically commonplace.

Dean was luminesent, a light stripping away Castiel’s sorrow and isolation. The afterglow of trivia night buzzed along his bones. He’d been quite good at trivia at first, pulling from his extensive experience to answer his team’s questions unerringly.

“Dude, you were scary good,” Dean assured him on the drive home. The music was turned down low, guitars crooning quietly. “You were amazing. Until you weren’t. How do you not even know who the Kardashians are, man?”

“I’ve never had the occasion to learn,” Castiel said, surprising himself by only affecting stiffness. This seemed to elicit more laughter from Dean which, Castiel was discovering, was truly addictive. He relaxed into his seat as Dean drove him home and took the opportunity to watch Dean without restraint. What had, only a week ago, been an obligatory interaction - just long enough of a conversation to recover Glorinda - had quickly snowballed into something like need. Castiel would be alarmed by it - he should be alarmed by it - but he couldn’t muster the energy to fight it.

He’d visited Dean’s farm every day after the fair. He’d looked after his chickens and seen Dean’s working barn, adapted to serve his auto business rather than house animals. He’d met customers and held entire conversations with strangers that ended amiably. It was amazing how in one moment life could seem like an interminable series of increasingly difficult breaths and the next it exploded into color. Laughter.

Want.

Rapid City was an orange smear on the horizon behind them. Ahead and all around the stars held court in the sky, bright and blazing. One of them fell, a bright streak of fire across the velvety black. “A meteor,” Castiel observed, craning his neck to look through the windshield.

“Seriously?”

Castiel nodded, feeling Dean’s eyes on him in the dark of the car. “Here, you call it the Perseid shower.” He pointed at another one streaking just at the peak of his window, barely visible to him and obscured to Dean. “Debris from a comet falling to earth.”

“Well.” Dean’s commentary seemed noncommittal until the car slowed down and he pulled off into the mouth of a dirt ranch road. The short road ended in a sturdy metal gate and Dean shut the car off and switched off the lights, plunging them into the dark crickety night. Insects whirred musically as Dean opened his door and gestured for Castiel to do the same.

Castiel followed Dean’s lead and as Dean slid onto the hood of his car with a grin, Castiel did the same. “Been a long time since I’ve watched for falling stars. I think the last time was when my brother Sam was out visiting and trying to impress his girlfriend. We went up into the Hills with a couple of my friends. I’ll tell ya, nothing’s more painful than watching your brother trying to make a move. The kid’s as subtle as a brick.”

“Do you see your brother often?” Castiel asked curiously, pulling himself onto Dean’s car. The chassis creaked ominously but Dean shot him an encouraging smile and Castiel settled back against the windshield, close enough to feel his warmth emanating through Dean’s t-shirt.

“Couple times a year.” Dean laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head, pillowing his neck with his hands. His arm butted up against Castiel’s head and Castiel found himself exhaling and leaning into the touch for as long as Dean would allow it. “My parents are divorced and years ago they divided up the holidays. So it’s my mom’s place for Christmas. My dad’s for Thanksgiving. And every once in a while I make ‘em all come and visit me for the Fourth. Shoot off fireworks and try not to blow up our hands. That kind of stuff.”

“You must miss them.” Longing, guessed rather than felt, seemed to roll off of Dean any time he mentioned his family.

“I do.” They were quiet for a while, with just the burr of crickets as accompaniment to the occasional shooting star. Then Dean asked, “What about you? Any family?”

Castiel sighed deeply and fabric rustled as Dean turned to look at him. Castiel tipped his head and then looked away again, back towards the sky. “It’s a complicated story,” he said finally. “Where I’m from. Who I was… I’ve left all that behind.” He swallowed against a traitorous lump. “Billina was like family, I think. There are very few hu— people - who fit that description.”

Dean exhaled quietly and turned back towards the sky as well and then Castiel felt his hand fumble for his. Dean rested his fingers across Castiel’s wrist, wrapping half around his palm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me about it. Just…whatever’s got you staying off by yourself. If you ever wanna talk about it.”

“I like it quiet,” Steve said, though he sounded hesitant, as though questioning that for the first time.

“I get that.” Dean moved to lift his hand and Castiel hastily gripped his fingers, coaxing them into a true hold around his own. There was a quiet sound, like a sigh. Then Dean’s fingers tightened around Castiel, holding his hand in a solid, warm grip.

After a while, Dean whispered, “You know, I’ve had a strange life too. Recently, anyway. I had a more or less normal life. Then about ten years ago I had a…scare. Made me rethink some choices. Some relationships too.”

Fireflies lit the field beyond, drifting up like mirrors of the sky. “What happened?” Castiel asked quietly.

“You wouldn’t believe it. And I don’t think I’m ready to go into it either, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Castiel nodded gravely. He understood.

“But it made me leave home. Came up here to live for a while with a family friend in Sioux Falls and when everything…blew over…I stayed in South Dakota. I met a woman. Tried to settle down.” He tugged at their joined hands. “You ever reach for normal and go so far beyond it that you lose it completely?”

Castiel laughed. “You have no idea. I feel like I do that every day. Reach for normal and miss it entirely.” Even to his own ears his voice sounded low, graveled and sad. He glanced at Dean and found him watching closely.

“Normal’s overrated.”

Castiel’s lips curved upward. “That so?” Dean was very close now, eyes bright in the moonlight. Their shoulders were barely touching, just enough to feel like an energy field pulsed between them, warmed by their skin and energized by each light brush of fabric. An urge swooped over Castiel and his tongue slid along his lips unbidden. He swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Overrated.”

“So,” Castiel said, a little breathlessly. His heart beat frantically and he willed it to slow down. “What made you stay?”

“What?”

“In South Dakota?”

Dean blinked at him for a moment, mouth working as though he’d forgotten how to speak. “I guess I fell in love with it. The land out here. The people. I used to work in advertising,” he said. “Had my life planned out. I was gonna work my way up the ladder. And when that fell apart I learned about cars from Bobby. Cashed out my retirement and bought the farm out here. Life’s too short, you know?”

Castiel grunted at this massive understatement. “I used to think that lives were fleeting. And then I…came here. I never knew how impossibly long life could feel until I had to manage all the aspects of it. Or how short it could be,” he said, thinking of Billina.

“What got to you?”

Castiel snorted. “Everything. Getting enough to eat. Finding a warm place to sleep. Scraping money together for fuel so my car - my home - wouldn’t be moved. It’s a hard world.”

“I didn’t know you went through all that.”

Castiel shook his head, mouth twisted bitterly as he said, “I still don’t have a plan. Not really. Billina took me in. Gave me a job and later, she got sick, gave me her farm. Everything. She saved me but I still—” He’d been speaking in a low urgent whisper, as though finally confessing something that had dogged him for years.

“You still don’t feel safe.”

Castiel shook his head. “Safety is an illusion. One day Billina’s money will give out. I’ll sell the farm then and live off of that for a while. But I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to carve meaning into this world. I don’t know if I should.”

Dean pulled their joined hands towards his chest, guiding Castiel to turn to him. “I came out here to find myself. To find quiet. Peace. I came out here for answers. Trying to figure out who I want to be. And you know what?”

Castiel tilted his head towards Dean close enough that their noses almost brushed together. “What?”

“I’m still looking. I don’t know if I’ll ever be settled. But I keep looking anyway.”

“And that matters?”

“‘Course it matters. The journey is part of the fun.” Warm air ghosted over Castiel’s lips with each spoken word. Something about it set him on fire, made him feel loose and too large in his skin. Desire trickled down through his bones.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dean said, startling Castiel out of his intense examination of Dean’s jawline. “What would you think about taking on Betsy?”

“Taking on Betsy?” Castiel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Dean cleared his throat. “It’s up to you. I just thought…she does so much better with Glorinda around. They’re off exploring the farm together and everything.”

“You don’t want her?” Castiel asked before a stone settled deep into his gut. _He doesn’t want you,_ his traitorous mind supplied.

“I do. I just…if Glorinda keeps crossing the road she’s gonna get hit someday. So if you can, you should take Betsy. It’s the best solution.”

It was also a solution that would keep Castiel from visiting Dean and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I’ll take her.” He started to pull away but found he couldn’t. Dean still held his hand close to his chest.

“Can I visit her?” Dean asked quietly.

Castiel looked up, startled.

“Can I visit her at your place, if I give her to you?”

“Of course! I wasn’t sure if you’d want to,” Castiel admitted.

“‘Course I want to.” Dean smiled at Castiel. He swayed forward. Licked his lips. “I’ve been having fun with you, Steve,” he said. There was something about hearing his assumed name in such a quiet moment that burned Castiel and desperation consumed him for something real. Something less transitory than a smile and wave goodnight. He didn’t know what he wanted, but whatever it was, it was more.

Dean’s eyes widened and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Then he leaned forward as well. Slowly. Carefully. When they were inches away again, Dean swallowed audibly. “You—” he breathed and then he kissed Castiel before the thought could be completed.

Castiel had never been kissed before. Before Billina’s motherly embraces, he’d barely been touched except in violence. So the softness of Dean’s lips, the warmth of his breath, the way his palm stole up to cradle Castiel’s cheek— Well, it was overwhelming almost to the point of madness. He leaned into the kiss and a low groan escaped him. Where once he’d stoppered himself up in shame for enjoying his own mortal flesh, no such qualms were with him now. His groan seemed to encourage Dean, who deepened the kiss.

When they pulled apart at last, Dean asked, “Was that okay?” He looked so earnest and worried that it was all Castiel could do to stop himself from pulling Dean across the hood and tangling their bodies together.

Castiel knew a thousand languages, but could only muster one word. “Yes.” He leaned in again and lost himself for a while in the warm caresses of Dean’s lips.

Later that evening, Castiel watched Dean drive away up from Billina’s house up to the road, his headlights disappearing over the crest of the hill. Castiel watched until Dean was only traceable by a soft, moving glow along the upper horizon. He felt full. Overfull. He grinned at the road beyond the trees and then looked around his little farm. A joyful laugh escaped him. At this moment, he loved this farm, those chickens, the trees, the crickets, the distant moon and stars, with an intensity he never would have imagined possible.

A sound like rustling feathers erupted behind him, stirring the dust at Castiel’s feet and disturbing the night’s calm.

The crickets fell silent.

“Castiel.” The voice, unheard for over five years now, made Castiel tense. He sucked in a breath and tamped down on the urge to fight or flee. He was weaponless. Useless. Castiel turned around.

“Inias,” he said, willing himself to show nothing. Feel nothing.

“It’s been a long time, brother.”


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

Dean crooned along to the radio quietly as he turned into his own driveway. The farm was asleep but Dean felt as awake as an electrified wire. He’d kissed Steve, and had been kissed in return. The rush of it buzzed through him, irrational and wonderful. 

He parked next to his house and sat for a moment, his palm resting on the seat next to him. Steve had sat right there, close and warm. He’d pressed his hungry mouth to Dean, eager and wanting. It kindled a fire in Dean’s bones and made him ache with desire. What a thing to fall for that handsome, strange man with his storm-filled eyes and soft smile. 

Dean inhaled deeply as he walked the short distance to his house. This evening the stars seemed like gregarious lamps hung in the sky; the air smelled sweeter. Whistling, he unlocked his door and did a half step dance into the entryway. His shoes _shushed_ against the tile.

“Dean Winchester,” a deep voice intoned from the gloom.

“Shit!” Dean sprang back and fumbled against the wall for the light switch, heart pounding. He strained to see into the house but all he could make out was a tall figure filling half the hallway and blocking the moonlight which streamed through the kitchen windows. His frantic fingers found the switch and he flicked it on. 

Dean squinted against the sudden light. His intruder smiled blandly, seemingly unaffected. “Dean Winchester?” the man in front of him said in a mild tone, as though it were not really a question. 

“Business hours are 9-3, buddy. In the daytime.” Dean’s gaze darted around the short hallway, wishing desperately that he had a weapon. There were guns upstairs. There was a gun in the kitchen cabinet behind boxes of noodles. But the intruder blocked the way to the kitchen. Dean tried to calculate his chances for successfully bounding up the stairs for a weapon. No chance. On the other hand, he could run back out the door, fumble for his keys, drive off to…somewhere. 

Something about the man triggered a sense of stifling doom. Dean stood his ground, hating that it was due less to bravery and more to a horrible swamping sensation of helplessness. “Who are you? No, scratch that. What are you?”

“My name is Hannah,” the angel said through the dark eyed man she was possessing. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

“I thought I warded against you assholes.” Dean scowled. “And what are you doing in my house?”

Hannah pointed over Dean’s shoulder to a portrait of Mary Winchester which hung by the front door. “The bottom curve of the glyph under that photograph should be unbroken,” she said solemnly.

Dean scrubbed a hand along his jaw, wishing frantically that he’d had the foresight to stash a weapon in the hallway. He’d grown complacent lately, secure in his small, insignificant homestead. “No,” he said thinly. “Why are you talking to me now? I thought I was done with Heaven and angels and demons and all that crap. Or wasn’t that the point of you taking me and Sammy’s blood? What, do you need more?” He narrowed his eyes. “Does one of you have Sam now? Is he okay?” His fists clenched and he started to advance on the angel. “If you hurt a hair on his head…”

Hannah held up her hand and Dean found himself immobilized. He gritted his teeth as she said, rather needlessly, “Peace. Be still. The cage containing Michael and Lucifer remains locked and your willing blood, the only key. Your brother is not needed.”

“Oh, but I am? I’m supposed to be retired from all this…crap.”

Hannah sighed and dropped her chin. “May I sit?” she asked.

“Oh, sure. Go right ahead,” Dean said in a drippingly sarcastic tone. He stumbled forward as Hannah released him and settled herself gently on his worn couch. She folded her hands primly over her knees. 

“Sit with me, Dean. We have much to talk about.”

Dean clenched his jaw, then crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite her, placing the coffee table between them. Meager defense as it was, it made him feel moderately better and he said in something slightly better than a growl, “If it’s not world ending, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Young man,” Hannah said with a frown. “Heaven is appreciative of your role in preventing an apocalyptic confrontation in your world. Now we need your help with something…ah…more personal.”

Dean goggled at her. “Excuse me? More personal? What the fuck does that mean?”

“As you know, when your brother was an infant an angel saved him from a dreadful fate. The demon Azazel was prevented from poisoning him and countless other children with demon’s blood. An entire generation of cursed and potential hosts for Lucifer were saved. We lost many angels in that first fight against the demons of Hell and none felt it more than the leader of my garrison. That angel…Castiel—” Hannah paused and looked at Dean for a moment as though the name should hold meaning for him. Dean crossed his arms and arched his eyebrow in response.

“Castiel,” Hannah continued after shooting Dean a puzzled look, “became a leader in Heaven. But something happened in the second war. The one for which we recruited you.”

“Apocalypse 2.0. Yeah, your suits told me all about it when you came knocking on my door for some of my blood. How Michael was trying to open the seals of Hell and let his brother out. You telling me this Castiel guy needs something else?” Dean gestured around to the modest living room. “Me?” He leaned forward and stared her straight in the eye. “No fucking way. Your ‘people’ were there. You know the deal.”

“We leave you alone. You leave us alone.”

“Exactly,” Dean spat. “How hard is that to follow?”

“You tell me,” Hannah said, her eyes shaded as she surveyed Dean from head to toe. “You're the one who broke it.”

The room was silent except for the faint gurgling of the well pump a floor below. “I haven’t contacted anybody from Heaven,” Dean said finally. “Why would I? Angels almost tore my family apart. The _world_ apart.”

“Castiel,” Hannah said. “You’ve met with Castiel. Specifically.” When Dean looked at her in puzzlement she cast her eyes towards the ceiling, cocking her head as though listening to something. When her gaze returned to Dean he gulped. “Steve,” she said. “You’ve had…contacts…with Steve.”

Dean turned to ice. “Steve,” he repeated numbly.

“Yes,” Hannah said with measurable enthusiasm, as though impressed with his ability to grasp the concept. “Well, no. That’s what we need your help with.”

“What?” The single word seemed to be all he could manage now that he had plunged into a gasping vacuum of shock. 

“Castiel took the last war…hard. There were many losses and when it was over, he lost his way. He…” Hannah gulped and laid a hand along her throat. “Cut out his grace. Fell to Earth. He’s been living out his life as a human.”

“But he’s…an angel.” 

Hannah nodded. “Yes. He is an angel. And we need him to return to Heaven so he can take his proper place.”

Dean found himself running his fingers along the seams of his jeans, remembering the warmth of Steve - no, Castiel? - on the hood of his car. The stars falling around them. Steve had dropped vague hints at a terrible past but Dean never would have guessed that he had been an angel. 

He’d attributed Steve’s oddities to a hard life, perhaps impoverished given his lack of experience with much of what life had to offer. 

But there was a hardness - an oldness to him, too. If Dean had met him as a younger man, he would have told him with a wink that he had an old soul, and meant it. “I can’t—”

“You must believe me, Dean.” Hannah sounded more harsh than imploring. “I’m certain if you asked Castiel yourself then he would confirm this. We can bring him here.”

Dean flinched. “Even if he’s…what you say…” He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Nobody’s getting dragged around, okay? Just tell me what you want.”

“Convince him to return.” Hannah looked somewhat disgusted as she continued, “It’s clear that you have developed a bond. Perhaps your opinion as to the proper place for angels will hold sway where ours will not.” Hannah leaned forward, arms perched on her knees and hands out in supplication, the most informal he had seen her. “You said once that angels should stay in Heaven. That is all that we are trying to accomplish.”

Dean looked away from her. “And if I do, you’ll leave me alone? My brother? My family?”

“Heaven will once again be done with the Winchesters, yes.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean said after a long pause. “Just… Just get out of my house.”

Hannah smiled beatifically. “Thank you. Heaven will owe you a favor.”

Dean looked up at her then and something in his eyes made her flinch backwards. “Get. Out. Of my house.”

With a rustle of feathers, she was gone.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered in the gloom of his living room. He buried his face into his shaking hands. “Fuck.”

* * *

Glorinda left the farm again.

Castiel sat on Billina’s porch with his elbows on his knees. He wore an old, worn pair of jeans caught by the hem under his heels and a soft, old t-shirt. There was value in comfort in times like this. He squinted into the sunshine at the distant brakes.

Inias had been perfectly pleasant the night before, acting like an old comrade-in-arms waiting for Castiel’s re-enlistment. “Come back, Castiel,” he’d implored, leveraging his most charming smile. “What do you have here? An uncertain future and—” He lifted his shoe and made a face, his shoe streaked with white droppings. “In Heaven you’ll be a warrior again. As you were meant to be.”

On his porch a day later, Castiel looked down at his hands. A silver blade - still resonating with his abandoned grace - flashed between his fingers as he spun it. Up, towards Heaven. Down, towards Earth. 

Refreshingly, Inias hadn’t floated the threat of punishment if Castiel opted to stay mortal. 

Perhaps angels could change.

But Inias had said that, should Castiel refuse, he would grow old. Grow useless. Be alone.

That last threat was enough to make him shudder. That last threat was enough to make him want to crack open the rock that held his grace and swallow it up. Let it burn out his taste for sandwiches, the joy he got from caressing the chickens in just the right way to make their eyes close in delight. Let it set fire to his recent love for pie. For his…feelings for Dean.

“Dean Winchester,” Inias had explained in the careful tones of a parent instructing a child, “was a closely guarded secret by the upper echelons of Heaven. A true vessel bred for Michael and his brother, for Lucifer. Your efforts to eliminate Azazel years ago saved their lives from misery, yes. But now the man only wants peace and freedom from angels. Imagine his poor luck, running into you.”

Castiel had opened his mouth to reply that he wasn’t an angel. Not anymore. Not ever again. And then Inias had said, “Hannah is talking to him now,” and Castiel understood that Dean was lost to him.

“A month ago,” he’d told Inias, “I would have gone with you and been glad of it. I would have left the planet for the humans. But now…” his voice wobbled and he hated himself for his weakness even as he pulled strength from it. “Now I know how much more there is here.” He had looked over his shoulder at the dark highway where Dean’s farmhouse lay hidden. “I may not have the perfect life here on Earth, but I can’t return to Heaven, knowing what is here. Knowing what is possible.”

He could see Inias considering and discarding his next offer - the gift of forgetting as payment for rejoining the garrison. But to his relief, Inias simply tipped his head to one side. “Very well,” he said. “Good bye, Castiel. But I hope it isn’t forever.”

He flew before Castiel could reply. 

The sun chased the moon and still Castiel sat as shadows curved around him. Would Dean speak to him one final time, enough to allow Castiel to explain? He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He sighed heavily and his chest hurt with the action. Pain, human pain, always seemed to leach from the soul to the body. He would have been fascinated by the mechanisms as an angel. As a man, he simply wished to curl into himself in a close, dark room and let time drag him away from the world. 

There had been a part of him - a foolish, human part - that had tested a scenario where he revealed his angelic past, or a version of it. Perhaps they would have been in bed, limbs tangled in sheets. Or maybe sipping coffee together on the back porch as the first flash of sunlight warmed the farm. He would have told Dean about his past - his true past. In his love-addled imaginings, Castiel had pictured peaceful acceptance. 

But that was out of the question now that Dean knew the truth. So Castiel had a choice. “Stay on Earth,” Castiel murmured. “Or return to Heaven.”

His sword flashed in the receding sunlight. 

At last, Castiel sighed and dropped his head. His back cracked when he stood. Castiel stared out at the wide, rolling brakes turning soft blue in the approaching evening. “Well,” he sighed, hand fumbling for the door handle. “I know what I must do.” With a final look at the farm, Castiel opened the door and disappeared inside. 

* * *

Dean crossed the road, a crate carefully held in his arms. Evening approached relentlessly and already a single star shone in the gathering darkness. Glorinda had arrived that morning like clockwork, clearly unaffected by the celestial visitors both farms had apparently experienced the night before. She’d strutted down the lane to Dean’s chicken coop and hopped inside like she had an appointment. 

Dean had been torn between amusement at the implacibility of chickens and desperate jealousy that any creature could simply…go on with their day. _He’s an angel._

From the top of the road, Castiel’s farm looked abandoned. The farmhouse was dark, the chickens closed up in their coop. Castiel’s ancient truck still sat in the driveway, though. Dean stood at the mouth of the driveway and took three long, shuddering breaths, trying to will his heart to slow. His stomach twisted painfully. 

Dean walked down to the farm. 

Dean had spent the night turning over Hannah’s news, at turns sickened with the thought that Heaven had pursued him even when he’d attempted to run, and astonished to hear that Castiel - the same angel who had rescued his brother as a child - was the man who lived across the road. The man who—

Dean shook his head and walked faster.

Nobody came out to greet him as he shifted the crate to his hip to unlock the fence. He opened it, stepped inside, and closed it again. He glanced back at the farmhouse, but nothing moved there. 

Quickly, he crossed the fenced yard to the coop and opened the door, stepping inside. Castiel’s chickens were quiet and sleepy, murmuring as he entered. Dean knelt on the floor and opened the crate. After a moment, Glorinda strutted out, as confident as ever. Then, hesitant but loyal, Betsy followed suit. Dean watched for a moment as the two chickens stalked around the henhouse. Then, assured that they would settle in well for the night, he closed up the crate and stood back up. “Good night,” he said.

He left the chicken house and locked it up tight, setting the crate onto the ground beside it. He looked up at the farmhouse and froze. A light shone from the far end of the house. “Oh,” he breathed. 

Dean couldn’t be sure how long he stood there, his hands in fists at his sides. He finally caught himself, and shook his head vigorously to stop himself from staring at the small square of gold that told him that maybe, just maybe, Castiel still lived there.

He crossed the yard again and let himself out of the gate, rounding the fence to get to the narrow brick path laid along its border. Dean followed the path to the door of the house and stopped on the stoop. He raised his fist to knock. His knuckles hovered over the door. 

Dean knocked.

He was about to knock again when the windows surrounding the door lit up. Moments later, Castiel was opening the door. “Inias,” he said, sounding exasperated, “I—” And then he saw Dean and words seemed to leave him. 

Dean looked up at Castiel as he stood in the doorway. His hair was wet, standing up in endearing spikes as though half toweled. He wore soft sweatpants and a plain blue t-shirt. His eyes were wide and red. Castiel looked so perfectly human, astonished and rumpled, that Dean couldn’t prevent his smile. “Hey.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped and when he finally said, “Dean,” it was low and rough. He swallowed. “Um.”

“Can I come in?”

Castiel’s gaze seemed to slide over Dean assessingly, fleetingly, and Dean held out both hands in supplication. “We should talk.”

“Of course.” Castiel’s expression shuttered. He looked over Dean’s shoulder, apparently registering that night had fallen. “It’s… It’s late. Please. Come in.”

Not for the first time, Dean marveled at the other man’s ability to switch off apparent emotion with ease, his face smoothing into stone. Dean had enjoyed finding ways to jolt him out of those moods. Those rare moments when he’d made Steve smile were precious. Watching his eyes light up made Dean feel like a lit lantern himself. Now he felt cold, and cautious. _Castiel_ , Dean reminded himself. _Not Steve_. He followed the other man inside. 

Castiel’s house was a small, modest house, fussily decorated. There were photos and paintings of chickens on the wall, and faded photographs of Billina Wallace with family or friends. The walls were papered in seventies-inspired florals done in harvest gold and brown and the furniture held cascades of little throw pillows. It was the house of an old woman and Dean wondered what traces of it were attributable to Castiel, or if he’d been living like a tenant in his own home for the past year. He trailed after Castiel, feeling as though he were in a dream, until he caught sight of the sword on the dining table. 

It was silver and short, with a rounded handle. Angel blades were practical, short and easily concealed. When used, they were devastatingly powerful. Dean stopped walking. 

Castiel continued a few steps and then stopped as well. He turned slowly, his shoulders set and face unreadable. He looked at Dean and followed his gaze to the sword on the table. Dean looked back at him and for a moment, Castiel’s stoic expression wavered into something like despair. The moment passed as quickly as it came. “Please,” Castiel said, blandly. “Would you like to sit down?” He gestured to the couch, eyes still flicking between Dean and the blade, and didn’t move until Dean took a step towards the worn courderoy couches. 

Dean settled himself on a couch and Castiel sat down on the other. They stared at each other. 

“So,” Castiel finally broke the silence. “You know.”

“Castiel?” Dean said with a note of a question in his voice. Castiel nodded slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“So…” 

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel said quietly, his eyes downcast. He pressed his palms into his knees. “If I had known about you. Please know that I would never have…”

Dean felt his heart plummet further. “Never have what? Never have met me? Become my friend?” He leaned forward and felt the weight of the words like a boulder as he asked, “Kissed me?”

Castiel nodded tightly.

Dean felt his insides collapse like a receding star. “Oh.” His mouth felt desert-dry and he licked his lips as he searched for words. 

“I left Heaven,” Castiel said, as though responding to a question. “Fell to Earth. Did she tell you that?” Dean nodded and he continued, “I couldn’t stay.”

“There was a war,” Dean said and at Castiel’s puzzled look, “Hannah told me.”

Castiel’s face twisted in a grimace. “Did she tell you what I did? Why I left?”

“No.” Dean leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped. Even now in the strange static charge of unburied secrets he yearned to be at the other man’s side. To touch and be touched. This yearning gave him the strength to say, “And I don’t care. Castiel. Are you going back?”

“Back?”

“Back. Back to Heaven.” He gulped when Castiel didn’t reply. “Look, I know they talked to you. And I don’t know what you’re planning or feeling. I don’t know.” He laughed shortly. “I thought I left that fucked up apocalypse mess behind but I see now that was stupid.” 

“Dean, I’m so sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “No!” Slowly he stood, hands raised as Castiel stiffened. He slid around the coffee table and settled onto it so that their knees were inches apart. This close, he could see the almost microscopic emotions as they flit across Castiel’s face. This close, they could touch if they wanted to. He held out a hand, palm down, and waited. When Castiel didn’t move he let it rest gently on his knee. Feeling the warmth of him - the real solidness of him - helped. “I don’t know what you’re planning. Or what that angel told you. But you should know, before you decide anything, that I—” Dean shook his head and let his fingers spread across Castiel’s knee, like a small embrace. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“You don’t?” Castiel’s face remained wooden and Dean understood the mask now. He was a soldier still trying to learn how to live after the fight was over. 

“I don’t.” Carefully, Dean raised his other hand and cradled Castiel’s face, thumb smoothing along the lines of his cheek. Castiel sat rigid for a long moment, half held. And then, in a sweep of fabric and a gasped exclamation that sounded like, “Dean,” he sprang forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Dean, hooking his chin over Dean’s shoulder so that they both hovered in the space between the coffee table and couch. 

Castiel trembled minutely in Dean’s arms, like he was emerging from a state of shock. He probably was, Dean reminded himself. He pulled Castiel in closer. He felt the same way, when it came down to it. “I’m not going,” Castiel said after a long time and Dean let him go as Castiel pulled back. He was blinking back tears, his eyes red. “I’m not going back. I left and it was for a very good reason. And there’s…” Castiel huffed something halfway to a laugh. 

“There’s me?” Dean said with a ghost of his usual assurance. Castiel blushed - actually blushed - and Dean felt the tight band release across his chest. Dean took his hand and closed it between his palms. “The chickens need you, too.”

“I couldn’t possibly abandon the chickens,” Castiel agreed, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. He lifted his other hand and closed it around Dean’s knuckles. “I was going to bring you pie. Drive to town and buy butter and flour and…and fruit. I’d bring it over and we’d talk and I—” 

Dean laughed. “You were going to bring me pie? Now this I’ve gotta see.” He smiled, trying and knowing he was failing to mask the strain of the last twenty-four hours. “But for now. Can I? Can we?” Dean slid across the gap to the couch and settled next to Castiel, pressing against his thigh and wrapping his arms around him. Slowly, Castiel leaned into him.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, pressing his lips to the top of Castiel’s head as he began to shake. “Alright. It’s okay.”

* * *

Castiel flipped the knife in his hand. It was weighted poorly, likely on purpose, and bobbled as he spun it, assessing its flaws. He narrowed his eyes on his target, the world growing still and colorless around him. The only thing in existance, for that moment, was the little yellow balloon tacked onto the wall on the far end of the stall. In the space of half a breath his hand was moving. The next moment the plastic blade quivered in the corkboard, shards of yellow balloon still quaking around it. He grinned, pleased, as Dean whooped beside him. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Dean crowed as the teenager manning the carnival stall rolled her eyes and reached for a long stick with a hook. The corkboard bristled with firmly stuck knives and the remnants of balloons, all Castiel’s handiwork. She carefully unhooked a velvety crimson cowboy hat from the top of the stall and handed it to Castiel, who turned and handed it to Dean. He watched Dean brush the layer of dust from his prize. “Amazing,” Dean said as he placed the hat on his head and slid his fingers along the brim with a flourish. 

Castiel couldn’t agree more. He took Dean’s proferred arm as they continued through the fair. He inhaled deeply, savoring the rich smell of sugared and fried dough overlaying earthier livestock and dust. He smiled and tilted his head consideringly. “I’ve been thinking about Inias’ visit,” he said. Dean stumbled and he tightened his grip on his arm reassuringly. “Nothing bad. But it’s been nearly a year. And I’ve been thinking about who I am. What my purpose is. Aside from carrying out Billina’s final wishes, I didn’t have anything in mind. Just…wait to die and see what came after, if anything.” 

Dean grunted disapprovingly at this statement. “Cas—”

“I used to think that. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

Dean steered them between two booths, stepping over ropes and plastic crates of supplies, flashing his charming smile at the perturbed vendors. He led them beyond the tents towards a line of trees that skirted the edge of the fair. The grass was longer here and rustled underfoot as they waded through it into the shade of a large, spreading oak. Dean sighed and sat down, tugging Castiel after him. “If I’m gonna have some deep metaphysical conversation, I am doing it in the shade,” he said. “So. What’s on your mind?”

Castiel plucked a blade of brittle grass and began wrapping it around his index finger until it splintered and fell apart. “When I was an angel,” he began, “I was a soldier.” Dean nodded. They’d talked about this. “I followed commands, led others. There was structure and a higher order we thought we were all fighting for. When I was resurrected during the fight against Michael and found so many dead. So many angels. Our hunter allies. My friends… It felt like more than I could bear. And then I…hurt people. Other angels.”

“Cas, I know all that. But that’s the past. Right?” Dean was staring at a small rip in the knee of his jeans, one finger pushing the little white strings around in swirls. 

Castiel ran a finger along his chin so that Dean turned to him, his face cast in pink from the reflected color of the hat. “Our past shapes us all, Dean,” he said and was rewarded with an eye roll. Castiel smiled. “I’m happy despite my past, or because of it. I’m learning to be happy, anyway. And learning to be sad. And to love.” This brought about a pleased expression, freckled cheeks creasing. “I used to think there was nothing within me. Just a set of old orders, expired, and useless skills.”

“Dude. You’re not useless.”

“I used to think that,” Castiel said assuringly. “My time with you has been…eye opening.”

“Eye opening?” Dean trailed a finger from Castiel’s knee down to the top of his thigh, curving his hand inward. “That all?”

It was Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes. “One track mind, Dean, I swear…”

“Hey!” Dean lifted his hand innocently. “Pot, kettle, black.” He grinned and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm with a lingering hint of sweet beer and popcorn salt. 

Castiel let himself drift into the kiss, nearly content to spend the sweet hours of the afternoon hidden in the embrace of the old oak. But he eventually pulled away, feeling more flushed than he cared to reveal. He leveled a stern gaze at Dean. “I was saying…”

Dean winked at him and tipped his hat forward an inch. “You were sayin’”

“Caring for Billina’s chickens has been rewarding but I think I know what I would like to pursue. I used to have a propensity for healing. I’d like to do it again. However I can.”

Dean grinned. “I know a guy who can whip up a mean fake ID if you need it.”

“I was counting on that,” Castiel admitted. “Thank you.” He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring out at the fair. 

“That’s it? That’s your revelation?” Dean knocked into him with his shoulder and then stayed there, drawn up against his side. Castiel tipped his head and rested it against Dean with a happy sigh.

“Isn’t it enough? It’s more than I ever thought to have.”

“I know,” Dean said quietly. “I’m happy for you, man.”

Castiel inhaled the sweaty-sweet-salt of Dean and turned to press a kiss to his neck. “I’m happy too.” 

When Castiel was an angel, he would have said there was no such thing as a perfect, golden moment. Time marched in its infinite, looping coil and it was impossible - the height of arrogance - to claim that one moment stood out among all the others. If the old Castiel, mortal skin burning with grace, could see him now Castiel would have kindly called him an idiot. For here was a perfect, golden moment. Here, under the cool shade of the oak with the calls of the crowd and the distant whinnies of horses mingling into a symphony, was one of the world’s greatest gifts. Castiel sat with Dean at his side and buzzed with nameless joy at the glorious, unpredictable possibility of his future. There was nothing in all the spheres of Heaven more incredible than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did Dean cross the road?
> 
> To snuggle Castiel.
> 
> (That's it. That's the story.)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely set on my grandma's farm - a beautiful place on a sloping hill overlooking the brakes outside of Rapid City, South Dakota. My grandma was an avid raiser of showy chicken breeds (though less so when I knew her) and there's a certain amount of nostalgia in writing this. I wasn't close to my grandma but I do feel close to the farm and the hot mineral air and haybales as high as a tractor and the old barn where we'd vanish for an entire day. In my mind, that farm is always locked in summer.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cas and Glorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724968) by [foxymoley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxymoley/pseuds/foxymoley)




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